


A Sensible Woman

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [47]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Friendships, Families of Choice, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 17:34:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8111230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: Elodie's best friend has returned from living a year abroad.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



When Elodie opens the door for Porthos, he knows that something is wrong. Well, maybe not _wrong_. Just out of alignment. Up. Yes. Something is definitely up.

“What is it?” he murmurs, stepping into her evening-dim hallway, transferring his shopping bags to his left hand so he can fiddle with the scarf around his neck with his right.

Autumn has finally arrived, transforming Athos into an eternally pleased Hobbit, and forcing Porthos to forgo his collection of crop tops in exchange for sweaters and cardigans until summer returns once more.

Elodie squints up at him, either suspicious of the ease with which he reads her mood, or simply trying to get a better look at his expression in the dark. Then she sighs. “It’s Sylvie.”

“Who’s Sylvie?” Porthos asks, toeing out of his shoes, shopping bags still in hand, trying to remember if the name applies to one of the women in her birthing class she stayed in touch with. He doesn’t think so.

“My best friend,” she elaborates, once more with a sigh.

Porthos frowns. “You never told me about her.”

Elodie grimaces. “Yes, well, I don’t know you all that long, do I? Which is kind of her _point_.”

Before Porthos has time to let go of the very eloquent “eh?” that’s sitting poised on the tip of his tongue a woman joins them in the hall. She’s not very tall, but makes up for it in personality. Porthos can tell.

She’s Elodie’s optical opposite in everything but the tilt of her chin - hair curly where Elodie’s is straight, skin a shade of brown not dissimilar to Porthos’ while Elodie has emerged from the relentless summer heat almost alarmingly pale.

“That’s him then?” she asks before Elodie has the chance to perform any introductions, looking him up and down like he was an undefined specimen at a farmer’s market sale. “Not quite what I imagined.”

Elodie rolls her eyes so hard that Porthos very nearly winces. “Charming, Sylvie, really.”

“You’re one to talk,” Sylvie replies, oozing good-nature all of a sudden, but only in Elodie’s direction. When she looks up at Porthos her gaze is deeply suspicious. “What do you want?”

Porthos promptly holds out his shopping to her. “To put these down.”

Instead of taking the bags from him she turns her back and walks away. “Well, apparently you know where the kitchen is.”

Elodie curses and follows Porthos into her tiny little kitchen, watches him stow away the baby food and greens he brought her. When he’s done and turns around, she’s crossed her arms in front of her chest and is looking somewhat unsettled.

“What?” he asks, and she grimaces again, lifts one hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Oh God I hate her.”

“Why?”

Because as crabby as Sylvie appears to be, that’s really nothing to inspire hate in Porthos. Athos is just as crabby, probably even more so. A lot more.

“Because she’s pointed out to me that I am _mental_ to make you my daughter’s godfather, that I don’t really know you, that you and your cuddly friends are far too good to be true and possibly part of a cat worshipping cult that sacrifices babies on a full moon.”

It all comes out in one breath heavily laced with both uncertainty and sarcasm, and Porthos puts up an impressed eyebrow. “I envy her her imagination. Even Teddy could learn a thing or two.”

Elodie groans and collapses onto one of her two dingy kitchen chairs. “She’s ruined everything.”

Porthos chuckles. “Hardly.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Elodie grunts, assuming a dramatic pose. “I trust her. She’s basically my _sister_.”

“Oh, I understand alright,” Porthos grunts back, moving to crouch down in front of her. “Athos is basically my brother - or rather _was_ , please stop lookin’ at me like that. Point I’m tryin’ to make is that, as much as I love him, he can be a right prickly bastard, and the first time he met Aramis he nearly set him runnin’ in two seconds flat.”

Elodie looks sceptical. “Athos adores Aramis.”

Porthos nods. “Now he does, yes. Thing is, he had the wrong idea about Aramis. Just like Sylvie has the wrong idea about me.”

“I doubt she’ll come to adore you any time soon,” Elodie says, suddenly looking impish.

Porthos pouts at her. “You tellin’ me I’m not adorable?”

“Urgh, stop, I might be sick.” Sylvie is standing in the doorframe, a drowsy Jasmine in her arms, and Porthos can’t help it, his entire face lights up at the sight of the baby.

Sylvie glares down at him. “I’m not giving her to you.”

Jasmine whimpers.

Elodie directs a pointed stare at her best friend. “Yes, you will.”

“No, I will not.”

Porthos gets up. “Maybe I should just leave.”

“Yes,” Sylvie agrees. “Maybe you should.”

“No,” Elodie says, grabbing the front of Porthos’ cardigan. “That wouldn’t solve anything.”

“For me it would,” Sylvie quibs, ducking her head when Elodie’s whips around. “Yeah, yeah, alright. Sorry. Only not really.”

Jasmine whimpers yet again, and Sylvie gently hands her over to Elodie. “I think she’s hungry.”

Porthos clears his throat. “I’m gonna make tea.”

Sylvie lifts a very pointed eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Instead she pulls Elodie out of the room with her. When Porthos joins them in the living room with a tray containing three steaming mugs as well as sugar and cream a few minutes later Elodie is just buttoning up her blouse and Jasmine is her usual content self.

Sylvie is the only one looking displeased, almost managing to drown out everyone else’s goodwill.

Porthos hovers uncertainly in the doorway for a heartbeat or two, then he shrugs and steps inside. Elodie’s living room is just as tiny as her kitchen, and since Sylvie is on the two-seater with Elodie and the baby, Porthos takes the armchair for himself after setting the tray down on the low table.

“You’re very much at home here, aren’t you,” Sylvie observes.

“It’s nobody’s fault but your own that you vanished to the other side of the planet for a year,” Elodie adds her own observation.

Porthos very pointedly doesn’t say anything.

“I kind of had to,” Sylvie says, sounding wounded.

Elodie picks up her mug. “Just saying. Now give him the baby.”

Sylvie, possibly out of misguided feelings of guilt, very carefully transfers Jasmine into Porthos’ waiting arms. Jasmine makes a pleased noise as Porthos settles her into the curve of his elbow, and Sylvie leans back into the sofa with a constipated expression, while Elodie looks decidedly smug.

Porthos takes a deep breath, smiling down at the baby in his arms, and gently rocks her to and fro.

“I still don’t like the idea of you joining a cult,” Sylvie says eventually.

Porthos allows himself to be distracted from the baby to gaze at her. “You know what, you should definitely meet Athos.”

“Oh God yes, definitely,” Elodie agrees, sounding gleeful.

“The mountain in Greece?” Sylvie asks skeptically.

“Just like it, only much harder to please,” Porthos agrees with a grin. He can hardly wait.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s Sunday when they make it happen. Outside autumn is strengthening its reign with grey showers of rain, thrumming goodnaturedly against the large windows of their living room. The stained-glass teapot is on the couch table, steaming purposefully, and Aramis has lit a cluster of candles around its warmer, making it somewhat hazardous to handle. They’ve served platters of chocolate cookies and honey cakes, and the kittens are playing hide and seek underneath the table and between their feet.

It could be idyllic. It is not.

For one, Sylvie looks horribly out of place in their living room. She’s not so much an explosion of colour as a gently dissolving masterpiece, possibly by [Jensen](https://www.google.de/search?q=johan+laurentz+jensen&newwindow=1&sa=X&biw=1600&bih=775&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&ved=0ahUKEwio8tWTlKXPAhWFdpoKHYZuBUoQsAQIHg). The dainty stitching on her flowing tunic reminds Porthos of lazy summer evenings, the smell of flowers heavy in the air - the kind of evening that usually ends with skinny dipping, more often than not in a lake situated on private property.

Porthos blinks and clears his throat and takes a peek at the baby carriage, where Jasmine is blissfully asleep and not requiring even an iota of his attention. It’s rather disappointing. He loves giving her his attention. All of it. Especially now that he’s feeling oddly out of his depth. Maybe he’s just not used to people disliking him so stubbornly.

Sylvie has said maybe two words since her arrival half an hour ago, has eyed both the leather couch and the most beautiful blanket in the world with hostile skepticism, quite likely rejecting their costliness; but she was quick to pet the kittens, and allowed them to paw at the bangles on her left wrist, so that’s a plus.

Elodie is half asleep in her seat on the couch next to Porthos, was up more than half the night with an unusually querulous baby, and is thus somewhat unable to pick up the slack and keep the conversation going any further than relating that piece of information.

The silence is starting to become uncomfortable. Because it seems that Athos and Aramis have decided to keep their peace as well - Aramis from a deeply ingrained aversion to poking a grumpy bear, Athos for reasons incomprehensible to Porthos.

Athos loves poking bears, it’s basically in his job description. He’s a bear-poking, coffee loving _Hobbit_.

And then Sylvie takes a deep breath and lifts her chin, and Porthos knows that this show is about to hit the road.

“So, you’re rich,” she says, making _rich_ sound like a disease, possibly of the venereal kind, her eyes dark and accusing and firmly fixed on Athos.

Who shrugs. “Not immoderately so.”

Porthos snorts and hastily picks up his teacup to hide behind. Athos glances at him in a mildly accusatory manner.

Sylvie lifts her brows. “This building belongs to you, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Athos confirms, still oddly placid. Porthos keeps waiting for him to unleash his own grumpy bear, and it keeps not happening.

“And I assume that neither of your two boyfriends pays you any rent?” Sylvie perseveres.

Aramis and Porthos exchange a confused look at this - because what has that got to do with anything?

“Of course not,” Athos murmurs, clearly disliking this line of interrogation. Nevertheless, his inner bear keeps hibernating. Lazy bastard.

“So when you fight,” she says, sounding oddly hesitant, “how do you handle that fact?”

Athos gazes at her for a long moment, but Porthos has given up any and all hope regarding fluffy predators. “We do not fight.”

She scoffs. “Oh please. Everybody fights.”

Porthos would like to point out how Athos, right this minute, is very disappointingly not fighting with anyone, but an unexpected voice speaks up before he manages to raise his own.

“But we don’t.”

All heads turn towards Aramis, who’s already blushing and precariously close to a stammer. “We really don’t! And even if we _did_ , Athos would never -” He bites his lip and stares at the table in front of him, hard. “He just wouldn’t.”

This quiet but fierce act of protective heroism is giving Porthos an idea where Sylvie is coming from - in a rather roundabout way. “I’m not expectin’ anythin’ in return from Elodie, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at. Neither are Athos and Aramis.”

Elodie chooses this moment to become rather more awake. “Oh, Sylvie, really - you have to get a hold on your trust issues.”

“You need to develop some,” Sylvie replies evenly. She sounds a little tired. Porthos suspects her of spending the night at Elodie’s place, to help her with the baby.

Athos eyes her for another long moment, and then he refills her teacup, adding the precise amount of cream she did earlier. “What do you do, Sylvie?”

“I’m a teacher,” she says, sounding as if that’s all the information they’re going to get.

Athos lifts his chin, undaunted. “What do you teach?”

Sylvie glares at him. She’s amazing, really. Porthos can’t say yet if he likes or dislikes her, but he wouldn’t mind spending 24 hours tied to her ankle in a fight for their survival. The force of her character alone would probably keep them pleasantly afloat for at least half a day.

“For the last three years I have been part of a program that trains teachers for underprivileged children and builds schools in areas of need and conflict zones,” Sylvie reveals reluctantly. “The Lily of the Vale Foundation. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

“Yes, I have,” Athos objects to Porthos utter and complete non-amazement. “I am financing it.”

That last part Porthos did not expect. He turns bodily around so he can stare at him. “You called it the _Lily of the Vale Foundation_?”

“I could hardly call it the Porthos du Vallon Foundation and hope to remain anonymous,” Athos drawls in reply.

A heavy beat of silence follows; Sylvie looks like she might faint, or have a fit; then Elodie breaks into a delighted peal of laughter, going so far as to slap Porthos’ thigh to vent her amusement.

“Oh my God, they way you kept talking about that Foundation as if you wanted to have actual babies with it, and all the while it was _him_! This is too good, I think I’ve sprained something.”

She gasps and falls back into the couch cushions, closing her eyes, her mouth still pulled into a grin. Porthos feels his own mouth follow her good example and looks at Sylvie from the corner of his eyes.

She’s looking right back at him, without animosity for once, instead distinctly confused.

It’s Aramis who breaks the silence. “I know,” he tells Sylvie in a low voice, pushing a plate with cookies a little closer to her. “But they’re really real. I promise.”

Sylvie blinks, snapping out of it. “Your promise doesn’t mean anything to me,” she informs Aramis briskly. “You’re part of the cult.”

Aramis digests this, and grins. “I am?” He sounds decidedly happy to be accused of such a thing.

Sylvie tries not to be charmed by him, and fails. “You’re not quite as corrupted, but yes, you definitely are.”

Aramis blushes rosily. Sylvie takes a deep breath, and Porthos knows they’ve won.

“I really hope this won’t come back to bite me in the ass,” she says, “but _okay_. Either you’re all amazingly great actors, or actually amazingly nice people. But if either of you does _anything_ to hurt my family, I will cut you.”

“Likewise,” Athos replies gently, eyeing her like a stray kitten he intends to adopt. The kind of kitten that got chased around by dogs, the kind that hides under cars and hisses from between the branches of a bush, ducking away from the hand that tries to pet it because its experience has not led it to expect kindness.

Sylvie smiles at him, very briefly. It is a proper smile, while it lasts, warm and engaging and honest, and Porthos realizes that she doesn’t look out of place on their couch at all. She looks like she belongs, or at least might do so at some point in the future. They just need to get used to her colour palette and brush style.

**Author's Note:**

> This one was inspired by our very own Deiseach - thank you, my dear, I had loads of fun with this!


End file.
